Validation

Sometimes I get frustrated when I'm upset because I just want Brian to listen to what I'm saying and agree with me that whatever it is just sucks. Instead, he listens and then starts coming up with solutions. I thought it was just in his nature to fix things, and didn't necessarily understand his impulse.

But yesterday I got a phone call from a friend. She was angry and upset, to the point that she was unable to sleep and could only lie in the dark fretting. I listened to her talk, and wracked my brain for any relevant advice, some sort of solution to her problem. I came up with very little of any use, and finally I just said, with complete honesty, "That's awful. I don't blame you for being bothered by that. I'd be furious."

There was a pause on the other end of the phone and a deep breath from all those thousands of miles away. Then: "Thank you." I didn't laugh out loud, but I was amused at how just hearing someone say that it was okay to be upset about this problem could help my friend calm down that quickly, as well as my own "fix it" mentality.

Thanksgiving

Over breakfast in Albuquerque a couple of years ago, I told my colleagues that I was the anxious one in my marriage when it came to travel: I am the one worried about traffic and parking and security lines. I think others at the table were a little concerned about Brian when I said that because when we were doing site visits, if I wasn't sharing a cab to the airport with anyone else, I would usually up at National only a few minutes before our plane began to board.

Wednesday morning I was worried. Brian and I had considered driving down to South Pasadena for Thanksgiving, as Adriana had handled the drive fairly well when we went for Halloween. But the Christie mentioned something about 11 hours on I-5 on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, and I decided that we would fly, in spite of the airport crowds. So I packed Adriana's and my duffle bag on Tuesday night, and planned on leaving for the airport almost two full hours before our flight was scheduled to depart (it's about a 20-minute drive with no traffic). And you know what? There was no traffic. We found a parking spot immediately and were taken quickly to the airport by the parking shuttle. We walked directly to the front of the line to check in (no checking in from home when you are traveling with a "lap baby"). The short security line moved quickly. Our plane boarded and left on time, and there were enough empty seats that we had our own row. Flying the day before Thanksgiving? No problem. What was I worried about?

It was a nice trip down to see The In-laws. Wednesday night my sister-in-law made a cheesecake topped with fresh berries to celebrate my birthday, and there were even a few presents for me. I spent most of Thursday over at my sister-in-law's apartment where she baked bread and a pecan pie, I made two pumpkin pies and an apple pie, and we took turns chasing after the baby. I gave many thanks for her standing mixer. Brian loves this recipe for pumpkin chiffon mousse, which I've made only twice before, both times deeming it good but not worth the effort; with the standing mixer it was a piece of cake (er, pie). Dinner was fantastic and we spent time after dinner playing a fun game of Trivial Pursuit, in which we kept reminding each other that the copyright on the game was 1981--questions about the Soviet Union and sports records weren't exactly up to date.

We spent a good part of Friday at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. It wasn't Adriana's first art museum, since we did spend her first six months in the land of the free museums, but it was the first since she'd become mobile, so I was a little concerned about how she'd hold up, but she did fine: she nursed through the exhibit on Islamic art, slept through Southeast Asian, European, and Japanese art, and was up in time to enter the Dalí exhibit. She didn't last long in there, but I didn't really mind slipping out, as surrealism isn't really my favorite. I was glad to be able to enjoy the exhibit Japanese Prints: Word/Poem/Picture, especially several scrolls by Otagaki Rengetsu. I liked the simplicity of her drawings, the curves of the Japanese characters, and the translations of her poetry:

"Through fields and mountains the autumn moon follows me on my joyful way home as if to send me to bed."

Saturday we headed back home. The Burbank airport was virtually empty, and there was again plenty of room on our plane. We found our car, in spite of the fact that we didn't take the little card with us and didn't know the name of the lot. "No, I think our shuttle is yellow," I told Brian as we wandered outside at San Jose and he pointed to a blue van. Luckily a white van with yellow and black lettering pulled up just behind the blue one and it took us to the right lot, with Brian teasing me the whole way about how all I knew about where we'd left our car was "yellow." I don't know what he was so worried about; it was obviously plenty.

After a couple of hours at home we headed back out, to see my friend Lynn, who was at her parents' house for Thanksgiving. It was fantastic to see her and her husband. She's expecting her first baby in April (a girl!), and I was a little envious of her belly, but it was fun to talk baby stuff and catch up.

And to round out a perfect holiday weekend, Adriana slept for nearly six hours straight when we got home. What more could I want?

On the first day of sixth grade, back in 1989, I sat down across the table from a pretty girl with brown hair in Mrs. Sanchez's social studies class. If someone had told me that eighteen years later we'd be spending an afternoon together playing with our kids, I don't think I would have believed them.


Why yes, the baby is sitting in a doll stroller with a wheel falling off. Perhaps letting the five-year-old do the assembly wasn't the best idea?

Courtesy of Helen and Sami

Brian came home from work and asked if we had any beer. I checked the fridge. No beer, but there was a bottle of sparkling wine that had been brought to our housewarming party back in August. So we had left over lentil soup and champagne for dinner.

And we lived happily ever after.

Eight things

Eight things you may not know about me, brought to you by Ann and my insomnia:

1. I've had the same recurring dream about someone breaking into my house since I was a child. Well, it's not exactly the same every time, but close enough: someone comes to the door and I know I shouldn't open it, but I do and they force their way in. It's been going for so long now that when I'm in the dream I realize it's a dream, except then it turns out it's real life and it's really happening. Except then I wake up. It does make me nervous about answering the door sometimes.

2. I have this thing about socks: specifically, I don't like the way they feel. I am very specific about what socks I am willing to put on my feet because of this. Brian does not have this concern, so he has many socks that feel "wrong" to me. Because of this, we have a crate in our bedroom that I throw all socks into when I'm putting away wash. That way I have to touch them as little as possible. Although it does mean that I have to dig through the yucky feeling socks sometimes when I need to find some. I am so glad it's summer and I get to wear sandals all the time now.

3. There's a major part of me that doesn't want to be vegetarian anymore. I frequently decide that it's too much work, that it makes me seem ridiculously picky, and that since I don't really have ethical issues with eating meat, I should just give up vegetarianism. Then I realize that this would require me to actually put meat in my mouth and chew and swallow, and the whole idea makes me feel rather ill.

4. When I was little I was afraid of the dark and liked the hall light left on when I went to bed. When I was in the second grade, firefighters came to our school to teach us what we should do in the event of a house fire, and one of the things they told us was that we should sleep with our bedroom doors closed. Such a dilemma: I was terrified of fire, and I thought keeping my door closed would keep me safe, but then my room would be too dark. My fear of the dark won out.

5. I have "internet friends"--a group of women I met on a public internet message board. There are 12 of us and I've met 5 "in real life" now. The other six I still consider friends, and I will sometimes say, "my friend said..." and then realize that I'm talking about someone I've never actually met. And when someone asks me how I met one of these friends, I'm always embarrassed to admit that I met them online.

6. In the summer after dinner my dad would sometimes walk us up to Baskin-Robbins for ice cream. I nearly always picked Gold Medal Ribbon. Brian and I walked up to Baskin-Robbins after dinner the other night. I considered the Gold Medal Ribbon, but went with World Class Chocolate instead. I felt sort of guilty.

7. I like movies where people talk a lot and nothing much happens. But sometimes I think the best moments in those movies happen when no one is saying anything. And just so I don't sound really boring, I also really like alien invasion movies, so long as they're not too scary.

8. I love the oaks and dogwoods and magnolias and cherry trees here, and the way things blossom in the spring and burn with color in the fall, but I have missed the cypress trees that show you the shape of the wind. I am looking forward to seeing those more often.


Why, yes, this is the bloggy equivalent of a chain letter. Nevertheless, I am tagging:

Christie
Eleeza
Champ

Keeping my word

When I took this photo, I told them, "I'm totally posting this on the internet." I think that counts as adequate warning.

Thanksgiving in London

I just had a wonderful Thanksgiving. You should read Jon Carroll’s column about Thanksgiving, as he describes pretty much perfectly why Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. Well, I suppose that as a vegetarian, I don’t exactly support roasted turkey as wholeheartedly as Mr. Carroll does, but other than that, he and I are on the same page. It's a holiday about being happy for what you have and about eating ridiculous quantities of good food. What's not to support about that? I also support leaving the country for Thanksgiving, as I have done for two years now. Our lovely American friend, Becca, and her charming English husband, Alex, can’t get canned pumpkin to make pies there, and I get two free days off of work, so it seems like the ideal time to pack my suitcase with canned pumpkin and other American delicacies (marshmallows and Tollhouse chocolate chips, among other things), as well as lots of warm clothes, and go for a visit. This year we had the added bonus of Christie escaping from work in India for a few days to join us for the holiday.

Wednesday

Wednesday morning I woke up on the plane as the flight attendants were bringing out breakfast. I was grateful for my comfy neck pillow and the nice headrests on British Airways flights that had allowed me to get a good five hours sleep on the plane. We landed smoothly at Heathrow, and I told The Husband that if I saw the captain on my way out, I would compliment him on the landing and thank him for not making me want to toss my cookies even once. Then the captain came over the speaker to say that he couldn't take credit for the smooth landing, as it had been done automatically by the plane. I don't know whether I like the idea of the plane landing itself, or whether it scares me a little bit. Maybe both.

We shuttled from the airport to the tube and then spent an hour on the train. Becca met us at the tube and we managed to get all our luggage on the bus back to her house. We had sort of intended to do some sightseeing that afternoon, but we were tired and it was good to just sit around the house, eat lunch, and catch up. We did make it out that evening to a favorite Indian restaurant, Rasa, for some delicious vegetarian curries. (I think I would like have a conversation in which I get to say, “Rasa is my favorite restaurant in London.” I haven’t been to all that many restaurants in London, but it sounds very cosmopolitan, don’t you think?) I don't think curry would have been Christie's first choice, as she was quite obviously homesick for some Western dishes, but whenever anyone had asked me what I was planning to do in London during the week leading up to the trip, my answer was, "Eat curry," and Christie humored us. We ordered what seemed like way too much food, and then ate every bit of it, using paratha and poori to mop up the delicious sauces from the serving dishes.

Thursday

On Thanksgiving, I felt only slightly guilty taking off to go sightseeing with The Husband and Christie while Becca and Alex spent the day in the kitchen preparing the feast. But they assured us that they could go to St. Paul’s and the Tate Modern any time they wanted, and I rationalized that we’d all just be tripping over each other in the kitchen anyhow.

Last year’s Thanksgiving break was my first time in London, and I had resisted going into museums, as I wanted to get out and see the city itself. We had gone into the Tate Modern as we walked along the river from the Eye to St. Paul’s last year only to use the restrooms. This year Christie suggested actually viewing the exhibits, and given the cold, wet day, it seemed like a very good idea. The museum divides works by themes, rather than by time periods, so we visited the Nude/Action/Body and History/Memory/Society suites. I’m glad we went into both, as I would have selected the former if we were only to have picked one, and I actually preferred the art in the latter.

Before we entered either suite, we looked at the Rachel Whiteread installation in the Turbine Hall. “It looks like sugar cubes,” either Christie or The Husband said immediately, as we looked down at the piles of white cubes with people walking among them. It was the kind of art in which I liked what the artist was trying to say when I read about it, and the work appealed to me visually, but I couldn't instinctively make the connection, even when I knew what it was supposed to be. I think what I enjoyed the most about it was the feeling of smallness I got walking around among the thousands of white boxes. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to take pictures, but I saw someone else do it right in front of a security guard without any consequences so I took a few myself.

My favorite piece of art was one of the first ones that we saw in History/Memory/Society, two carved trees by Giuseppe Penone. You can read about the piece and see pictures here. Penone carved two trees out of timber beams, leaving the beams intact at the base of each tree. It’s interesting to me to read about what Penone was trying to accomplish with his work, because I took away something very different. I was left struggling to put into words the idea of forming this beam out of a tree, only to try to carve it back with chainsaws and chisels to form an image of a tree. I looked at the carved tree rising from the squared off block of timber beam and it struck me that we often take from nature, try to force it into a shape that serves our purposes, and then try to force the more natural aspects back into the appearance.

It seems to me that I read something in a newspaper not too long ago about what sort of text museums provide for each piece of art. Some museums only tell the name of the piece, the artist, the date, and how the museum came into possession of the work. I prefer the Tate Modern’s approach, which also includes a few sentences describing the art, perhaps giving some context from the artist’s life or the time period. I can appreciate most visual art more if I am given some context, and reading even just a little bit about a piece makes me want to consider the art more carefully than I would otherwise.

Another room was filled with a piece on the Iraq war by Thomas Hirschorn. I walked around the work several times, looking at the faces of the US soldiers who surrounded a city built from every day objects, with political books and giant mushrooms rising from the streets. The text that was provided about the piece included a quotation from Hirschhorn that I copied down: “It is only when the eyes and the brain get exhausted that there are no lies and you can get to the truth.”

I contemplated Hirschorn’s words as I stood in the next room, a room that had no art, just chairs looking out over the river. It was raining and windy—the some of the narrow trees outside the museum looked as though they could break as they all leaned with the force of the wind. People were flowing back and forth across the Millennium Bridge between the museum and the Cathedral. I was pleased by the way the brightly lit art in the room I had just left contrasted with the dark day, the lines of the bridge, and Christopher Wren’s dome. I felt that I understood Hirschhorn, but I wasn’t sure I agreed with him.

Three other works really stood out to me. The first was one that Christie pointed out to me, Gerhard Richter’s Townscape Paris (sorry, no image there, and I couldn't find one using Google Images, either, leading me to the conclusion that it's just not on the internet at all), which to me captured the idea of a city perfectly, although I have never been to Paris, so I couldn't tell you how well it captures Paris. I didn’t write down the artist or title of the second one, and I have completely forgotten, although I can call up the image in my head: it was a photograph of a dark, empty room that appeared to be flooded, although according to the description, it was a trick of resin that gave the photo that appearance. I couldn’t say what it was about the photograph that struck such a deeply emotional chord for me, but I stood and stared at it for a long time, feeling very sad. The Husband suggested that the sadness came not simply from the photograph itself, but from the fact that I was connecting this particular image to the images in the news of this fall’s hurricanes. He could be right, but I do think that there was just a lot of sadness conveyed from the photo itself, even without that context. The last work was Rodin's The Kiss, which he apparently didn't like, but which amazes me as most sculpture does. The idea that a person can bring figures out of a piece of marble is awesome.

We walked back across the bridge to St. Paul’s Cathedral, which was my favorite part of last year’s trip. I still loved the Cathedral, but this year’s visit wasn’t as spectacular. Last year as we climbed to the Whispering Gallery, on the inside of the dome, organ music was playing and we reached the top in time to see a brightly-robed procession come through. Afterwards, we climbed up to the two outer galleries, and I was left with knees like jelly for an hour after we came down, as my terror of the heights was magnified by the narrow walkway and fragile-looking barrier on the uppermost level. In spite of that fear, I had wanted to climb up again this year, thinking I had built my tolerance for heights somewhat with all the towers we climbed in Italy in May, but they had closed the outer galleries due to the wind and rain just before we arrived. I was disappointed to miss out on the wonderful views of the city, but somewhat relieved to only have to deal with a little bit of nervousness peering down into the Cathedral from the first gallery.

We went back to the house to find that Becca and Alex had a Thanksgiving feast ready to go on the table. With two vegetarians and two people who border on vegetarianism and don't like meat, we decided to forgo the turkey this year and filled up with side dishes: artichoke dip, tomato soup, green salad, spinach-cheese casserole, sweet potatoes (one of Becca's friends gave her what I think is the best sweet potato recipe ever), cranberry sauce, stuffed mushrooms, stuffing, and pumpkin pie (with a superb crust). Christie brought an excellent bottle of wine, and I think the next two bottles we drank were good too, although I can't really remember them at this point. Mostly I'm just proud that I managed to avoid getting drunk and passing out on the couch this year, breaking with what had become something of a Thanksgiving tradition.

Friday

On Friday we bundled up against the cold and took a train out to Oxford. We started our day there with lunch at the Eagle & Child pub, where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien once spent time. Mostly it was full of American tourists and American students studying at Oxford. After lunch (which was okay, even though English pubs aren’t the ideal place for vegetarians to find food), we explored Blackwell’s, a wonderful bookstore, so big you can easily get lost, with six miles of bookshelves. I was in book-nerd heaven.

Next stop was Christ Church college, which I wanted to visit mostly because parts of some of the Harry Potter movies have been filmed there, and certain sets have been modeled after parts of the school. I loved seeing the Great Hall, although I was sad to see that candles don't actually float above the tables.

A couple of other pictures from Oxford:

When we returned from Oxford, we went to Covent Garden to look at the shops and drink mulled wine, but we were too late: the shops were closing and there was no mulled wine to be had. We went back to the house to eat our Thanksgiving leftovers and watch Shaolin Soccer (Note to Rachel: I kept thinking that you would get a kick out of it), which in Alex's words, was either the best or worst film I'd ever seen.

Saturday

We intended to get an early start on Saturday, but somehow that didn't happen. Becca and I actually got up plenty early, but instead of getting ready, we sat in the kitchen and gabbed for over an hour until the boys started to wake up. Still, we managed to have a full day. We walked to the neighborhood Saturday market, and spent some time looking at the booths--organic coffees, some vegetables, pastries, jewelry, and prepared foods. The Husband had a spinach crepe from one booth, while the rest of us ate Ghanaian food. I haven't eaten much African food, but I can support anything that is spicy and comes with fried plantains.

Next we took the tube to Kensington to take a walking tour from a company that several friends recommended as we planned our trip last year, London Walks. Last year we hadn't made it on any of the walks, and with Alex as a tour guide I didn't feel that I'd missed much, but I'm glad we did it this year. We saw things we never would have found on our own, or even with Alex's help, including a one-and-a-half-acre roof garden, complete with real pink flamingoes. The guide, David, told us interesting stories about the people who had lived in various houses, and took us into the parish church. It was a long walk, and after two and a half hours, we clearly needed to spend some time at a pub. David recommended one that wasn't too far away from the walk's end point. It was cozy and nice, and I enjoyed watching some rugby on the television there--much more exciting than American football. Dinner was at a curry restaurant on Brick Lane--not as good as the food at Rasa, but still tasty.

Sunday

Sunday was another day when we intended to get an early start, with the hope of getting in a little more sightseeing before we had to leave, but we slept a bit late and moved rather slowly, and before too long we had to pack our bags and head for the airport.

The flight home was lousy. I suppose the flight to one's vacation is always better because despite the discomfort one has something to look forward to besides an empty refrigerator and spending the next day feeling jetlagged at work. I suppose none of the problems I had on the flight would have been an issue if I had just taken a nap, but I forced myself to stay awake on the way home in order to minimize jetlag. First, the man in front of me leaned his seat back further than I knew it was possible to lean any airline seat back. When the flight attendants brought lunches around, they asked him to raise his seat slightly, as I couldn't open my tray table at all, but as soon as they picked up the "rubbish," his seat was back again. I had to lean my seat back slightly, and then lean it back even more whenever I or either of the other women in my row wanted to get up. The headphone jack at my seat didn't work, so I couldn't watch movies (and I had wanted to see the newest Batman), but I had picked up the newest Patricia Cornwell novel in the airport (because on a plane, that's really the most serious book I'm prepare to handle, and even though I don't read many mysteries anymore, I am strangely addicted to the Kay Scarpetta series--The Husband suggests that the pages are coated in crack), but when the cabin lights were dimmed after the meal I discovered that my reading light was out, as were several others nearby. The flight attendants attempted to resolve the problem by resetting the lights, but only managed to turn out all the lights in the last 11 rows of the plane. One of the flight attendants found me a flashlight, so at least I got to finish my book (which, in case you're interested, is a big improvement on the last few Cornwell books, but still not up to the quality of the first ones in the series).

In spite of my whining and general crankiness, we made it home all in one piece, even having time to pick up some "take away" Thai on our way from the airport. (Normally a flight returning to Dulles is our excuse to eat at delicious curries at Amma Vegetarian Kitchen in Vienna, but I was not emotionally prepared to deal with the slow service.) I'm almost back to normal in terms of sleep. I did wake up at 3 am on Monday feeling wide awake, and I was so tired after work and my yoga class that night that I don't actually remember going to bed, but I have managed to have two somewhat productive days back at work, in spite of the time I spend thinking about next year's Thanksgiving.

November miscellany

I love November.

The weather here has been erratic this fall. Yesterday we had a high around 70 degrees, but by the time I left my office it was pouring rain, and I shivered as I waited for the bus in my zip-up fleece. Today we are set for a high of 45, which to me sounded like a great excuse to stop for a caramel apple cider on the way to the office. To The Husband, it sounds like a great excuse to work from home. The Husband spent the majority of his life in Los Angeles County. The Husband doesn’t cope so well with the coming of winter.

But I am just relieved that it’s not hot and sticky anymore. We probably have until about mid-January before I start complaining about the weather again. I’m also distracted from the cold by all the other lovely parts of late fall. There are, of course, apple cider and pumpkin treats. The ground is covered in leaves. They are mostly brown, but there are still a few shiny spot of bright red and yellow. They make a lovely noise as I shuffle through them on my way to and from the bus. However, I have also been looking forward to November for some time now, ticking off on my fingers the many good things about this particular month, to pretty much anyone willing to listen:

1. Two great concerts that I got to go to
2. A new Harry Potter movie
3. My birthday
4. Thanksgiving
5. A trip to London
6. Getting to see friends that I haven’t seen in months

We shall address each item in order.

1. The concerts have already happened. We saw Joan Baez at the Birchmere the first week of November. She was absolutely wonderful, telling funny stories and singing pretty much all the songs I wanted to hear. “Forty years ago, I bought you some cufflinks,” she sang on “Diamonds and Rust” during her encore, interrupting herself to say that she’d better not be singing that at fifty years. She did, however, hum the last few lines of the last verse of “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” after missing the words. We sat at one of the front tables, and Julian Bond was at the next table. Actually, after the show, Brian went to find the restroom, and came back quickly.

“Long line?” I asked

“Not too bad. But I would have been right behind Julian Bond and that made me nervous.”

I laughed at him. And told him I would tell the internet.

1b. On Monday night, we went to see Dar Williams, also at the Birchmere. This time, we were not among the youngest in the audience (Nobody was buying that I just looked really good for a 52-year-old at the Joan Baez show), which was kind of nice. Our seats weren’t quite as good, but it was still a fabulous show. I love seeing musicians enjoying themselves on stage, and Dar and her band seemed to be having a lot of fun. Girlyman opened. I’d never heard of them before, but you should definitely check them out if you’re into new folk music. We ended up buying two albums after their set. Of course, I may have been biased by the fact that they started their set with “Born at the Right Time.” I am a big sucker for Paul Simon songs.

2. Not much to say about Harry Potter. The Chron gave it a good review yesterday, and I’m excited. I need to Fandango some tickets for tomorrow night.

3. I am oddly excited about my birthday this year. The Father-in-law asked last weekend what was such a big deal about turning 27. I couldn’t come up with an answer. The Husband point out that I am like this every year. I think it amuses him, and he certainly does his best to go along with my celebratory attitude, letting me celebrate all week long. My actual birthday is on Saturday, but The Husband had flowers delivered to my office yesterday, which got me plenty of attention at work, especially as they were at first delivered to the wrong Elizabeth. In some ways I would love to be surprised by something wildly romantic for my birthday, but I am a bit of a control freak, so I take care to plan my birthday myself. Saturday I have a full day planned: we’re going out to brunch in the morning, so I can have some birthday French toast, then I am going to get a facial and pedicure, and we will go out for Mexican tapas and perhaps a pomegranate margarita or four that night with friends.

4-6. The last three are all going to happen simultaneously, so I will write about them all together, but each one is a good thing in and of itself, so I’m counting them all separately. First of all, I think Thanksgiving is a fabulous holiday. What’s not to like about a special day set aside to eat a lot and think about all the good things that are going on? Last year we spent Thanksgiving in London. My very good friend Becca from grad school married a wonderful Englishman and moved to London after we graduated. I would have objected, except she was engaged and had these plans before we got to know each other, so I didn’t really have any say in the matter. Besides, now I have a free place to stay in London. Thanksgiving seemed like a great time to go visit: she would have Americans to celebrate with, and we could use the vacation days from work. We had such a grand time that we decided we ought to go back this year. This year will be even better. Becca has been doing her best to avoid getting strep throat (she apologized for the fact that it slowed her down last year. All I could think was “That was slow? Thank god for that fever, then.), and I am going to try not to get drunk in front of her in-laws (I spent a good part of our Thanksgiving dinner giggling and saying “That was so British!” every time any of them said anything. Then I passed out on the couch and didn’t help with dishes.). As an added bonus for this year, Christie will be joining us from India. It will be a busy few days, trying to fit in plenty of sightseeing and prepare our Thanksgiving dinner, but it will be fun. We have a trip to Oxford planned, which I am very excited about.

I am looking forward to my birthday this weekend and the upcoming trip, but for now I must go try to understand price index theory. I took three semesters of economics in graduate school, so you’d think I would have some glimmer of understanding, but I got a B+ in each and every one of those classes (and was pretty proud). These things just don’t come naturally to me. I am, however, concerned that all these articles I am reading use ‘indexes’ as the plural instead of ‘indices.’ Why doesn’t that feel right to me?

Ode to Jamie

Yesterday was not my day. I had been complaining that it needed to rain for most of the week. It has been hot and humid, and the rain would break the heat, I thought. There had been occasional thunder, but no actual rain. You know how it feels when you need to sneeze but just can’t? The air had that same sort of tense, waiting need for rain.

Yesterday, it rained.

I was waiting for a bus after work when the first few drops hit. A bus came, and I didn’t even need to get out my umbrella. But by the time we got to the metro station, it was pouring. I opened my umbrella, and tried to move quickly to the metro. By the time I made it into the station, my clothes were pretty wet, in spite of the umbrella.

It was my friend Sara’s birthday, and I was meeting her, her boyfriend Jamie, and some others for a celebratory dinner and a restaurant near my house. On the metro ride home, I decided that I would call Sara and Jamie to ask if they could pick me up on their way to the restaurant. Brian was using the car that night, and normally I would walk, but I didn’t want to go in the rain.

When I came out of the metro, though, the rain had stopped. The air had cooled a bit, and it felt less humid. The ground wasn’t even very wet. I went home and threw my pants in the dryer (yay for having my own dryer!) and found a clean shirt. A little while later, dressed in dry clothes, I headed down to the restaurant, carrying my umbrella, just in case.

I walked quickly down the hill, waving to Marvin the bus driver as his bus lumbered in the opposite direction. When I hit the bottom of the hill, I had to cross over the freeway, on a pedestrian overpass. Just as I started up the ramp, another downpour began. I unfurled my umbrella and quickened my pace. As I started over the freeway, the wind picked up, and a tried to use my umbrella to block the rain coming from my left to no avail. I thought about how embarrassing it was going to be to arrive at the restaurant as wet as I had been when I reached the metro earlier, but as I neared the half-way point of the overpass, I realized I was already much wetter, in spite of being in the rain for under a minute. How did I know I was that much wetter? There was one key reason:

My pants were trying to fall off.

I was completely soaked, and my pants were so heavy with all the water that I was having trouble keeping them up. I folded my useless umbrella, held my pants up with one hand, and ran, wishing I’d worn a belt and wondering what I would do when I reached the restaurant.

I stood underneath the awning when I arrived and looked through the glass front. I could see my reflection in the window. I saw my friends having a drink while they waited for a table. I saw them noticed me and start to smile. I stood there until I saw my friend Jamie heading toward me. I motioned him outside.

“I’ll drive you home to change,” he told me, before I could say much of anything. I refrained from hugging him. No one likes to be hugged by a drowned rat. I gave him my umbrella as we hurried to his car, as any attempt to stay out of the rain seemed a little irrelevant at that point.

At one point in time, Jamie had worried that Brian would be upset with him. That was after Jamie had delivered me home in an inebriated state about three times. We had a pattern: whenever Brian couldn’t go out with the group, or wasn’t in the mood to go out, I would go, drink more than I ought to, and Jamie and Sara would make sure I got home safely. Brian was, of course, never upset with Jamie (and usually not with me, either), but simply glad I had made it home safely. Somehow, in my mind, Jamie driving me home for dry clothes was closely connected to his willingness to be my designated driver. Still, I wished I were drunk rather than soaked.

Jamie waited in the car, listening to the Red Sox game, while I ran into the house to change. I was soaked to the skin, so I shed my clothes in the bathroom and ran to my room. I dressed, and ran down the stairs. I hurried back up to loop a long scarf through my belt loops and knot it, just in case. Within 15 minutes of my first arrival at the restaurant, Jamie and I returned. It was barely raining anymore.

Sara and Jamie dropped me off at home after dinner. I went inside and sat on the couch with the cat in my lap, listening to the messages on the answering machine. The first message made me smile.

“Hey, Elizabeth, it’s Jamie. It’s pouring right now, so if you want a ride to the restaurant, just give me a call on my cell phone and all come pick you up.”

Jamie rocks.

And I am going to try not to wish for rain for the rest of the summer.

A chance to sing the song

Warning: There is a very high likelihood that this post will be riddled with clichés.

A friend was visiting last week, and she told us about her new romance. It was sweet to see her so excited and happy. I thought I detected some nervousness there, as well, but that seemed normal, and I decided it was probably part of the excitement.

When she had gone, Brian said to me, “I hope she doesn’t get hurt.” He has said similar things in the past, usually about other female friends who are beginning new relationships, so I wasn’t entirely surprised. But I didn’t quite agree with him.

“She probably will,” I told him. Brian was seemed astonished that I said so—maybe because I am usually the romantic and sentimental one. Still, I thought what I said still qualified as romantic and sentimental.

Another friend used to quote a lyric from a folk song when I was nervous about a new relationship (including my relationship with Brian), and I quoted it right back to him at least once. I was tempted to quote it to Brian right then, but I always feel a little funny offering up wisdom from music, and so I just tried to explain myself.

I told him that she was probably going to get hurt no matter what happens, because she's in love. If the relationship doesn't last, it will be painful since she has already allowed herself to care so much. And if things do work out, the two of them will almost certainly hurt each other, just as Brian and I have. We don't want to hurt each other, and because we are in love we try not to, but it can't be helped. When we cause each other pain, we apologize (because that line from Love Story? It's just wrong. Not that I've ever read the book or seen the movie.) and try to do better.

I feared sounding trite, because I knew I was expressing something of an “it is better to have loved and lost” sentiment. When you love you get hurt. You open yourself up to that. And that’s why being in love is so exciting and so good.

I didn’t say that I hope she does get hurt. That sounds wrong, and it’s not really what I mean. But if you care enough to get hurt, I think that’s probably good for you. That’s romantic. That’s wonderful. And I hope the hurt isn’t too terrible.

One is silver and the other's gold

Brian frequently comments on how long my friendships last. Most of the people I am close with I have known for years. It’s important for me to keep friends for a long time. I like the familiarity of being with someone who has known me since I was ten years old. They know what I’m like. We’ve watched each other grow up. When I’m with someone I’ve known since the first week of college, I know that they’ve seen me through a lot of changes and that they understand something about why I am the way I am.

But underlying those reasons is something else, something that’s also important: if I didn’t have my old friends, I’d have to make new ones, and I find that prospect absolutely terrifying. I prefer to stick with the friends that I’ve known for so long that I wouldn’t know how to stop being friends with them. They’re like family: there are times when I’m not sure why I like them, but I know I love them dearly and life wouldn't be the same without them.

I’ve always been shy. Meeting new people can be a struggle for me, a painful one. I’m not entirely sure why that is, or what I’m afraid of. I suppose it’s probably a matter of self-confidence. And maybe I just don’t have enough practice. I lived in the same town until I left for college. The times when I needed to make new friends were few and far between. My closest friends, with a few important exceptions, are people I met on the first day of middle school and during the first week of college.

A couple of days ago, I had a wonderful afternoon with one of those exceptions, my friend Becca. Of my close friends, she is the one I have known for the shortest time. I met her during orientation, but we didn’t really become friends until our second year at Georgetown, when we had all our classes together. We spent a lot of time “studying” in cafes, with about a 3:1 ratio of chatting to studying. When she got married and moved to London, I was worried that we would fall out of touch and I would never see her again. But less than a year later, we were hanging out at a cafe and prowling used book stores, and it was as if she'd never left.

As we were sitting outside, enjoying the sun and our tea, talking about marriage and traveling and anything else that came up, I thought how strange it was that I felt so close to someone I've known for so short a time. It doesn't feel as though we've been friends for less than two years. If I think about it, I know that Becca doesn't know me in the same way as someone who has known me since I was ten years old, and I don't know her as well as I know the people that have been friends with for more than half my life. But somehow I feel as though I've known her forever. I started to wonder when that line was crossed, when she became such a good friend to me. Is there a specific moment in a friendship when that happens? If there was, I didn't notice when it happened, but I am happy that it did.